Smoking Magnum, 1991
Peter LaBerge
for Stacy Dillon
Cleveland, Tennessee: unmoving boy
and unrecovered gun. The silver
mouth of the .44, the chrome-plated
lip, the handle stained the color
of churchwood. 1991, down history’s throat
like a pill he might swallow to see
the beauty in girls. He fired
his lover’s name into the sky, stars
knocked out and strewn like teeth: one
beneath an end table, one behind
the bloodied couch. The unholy bullet
left his lover’s gun, knowing
it was to enter through the softness
of his cheek. Cleveland: no more
than a faceless boy and a body full of bone.
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Cleveland, Tennessee: unmoving boy
and unrecovered gun. The silver
mouth of the .44, the chrome-plated
lip, the handle stained the color
of churchwood. 1991, down history’s throat
like a pill he might swallow to see
the beauty in girls. He fired
his lover’s name into the sky, stars
knocked out and strewn like teeth: one
beneath an end table, one behind
the bloodied couch. The unholy bullet
left his lover’s gun, knowing
it was to enter through the softness
of his cheek. Cleveland: no more
than a faceless boy and a body full of bone.